Gritting her teeth, swallowing down the worst of her pain, Marigold pulls herself up. The soulmate spell is broken in her hand, and glittery shards of glass burrow deep into her palm. Her fingers find the part of the bottle that is most intact. With all the fight in her body, she brings her hand to Chesha’s mouth and pours the honey inside.
It is instant. The milky haze leaves Chesha’s eyes, and they light up when she sees Marigold. Her grip releases. There are bone-deep black bruises and broken blood vessels in its wake. Lottie pulls her away from Chesha, but the landvættir does not move.
In Chesha’s eyes, there is such profound apology, such deep sorrow. Marigold smiles up at her. There will be no grudge held here.
“I’m free,” she whispers, as if she cannot believe it. If she says it too loud, will some cruel fate chain her up again? She keeps this freedom close to her chest, nurturing it with quick, desperate breaths. Her pain is extreme, but she has to push through it. There will be time to heal in the morning.
“Chesha, guard the door. If Versa tries to escape, do not let her.” Chesha nods, moving silently to her post.
“We must be quick,” Lottie says, kissing her fast and pulling her toward the back of the cottage. They crouch below the window of the enfleurage room, still shattered from Versa’s battle cries. Inside, there is the large cauldron filled to the brim with tallow. That is the key. If they can get it hot enough to catch fire, the cottage, and everything in it, will burn. Marigold will feed the oil fire with wind and spread it with water. Lottie will keep it burning with her magic no matter how much Versa tries to fight it.
Versa will die the same way that she killed Lottie’s parents.
Lottie raises her palm. Dark tendrils of magic unfurl from her hand and reach into the room. Marigold keeps her hand on Lottie’s shoulder and encourages her to keep going. It’s not easy for her to control her magic yet, but they have no other choice. As the cauldron heats, the tallow melts into a yellow-tinted liquid. Marigold calls to the smallest slivers of magic that remain to try to make the plants in the room grow enough to reach the tallow. They need to be touching it when it catches fire if this plan is going to work. Her eyes close. Her body shakes. It feels like her insides are being ripped through her mouth as her magic moves into the room and threads through the veins of the plants. The leaves start to rustle and the flower buds open, but she’s not strong enough to grow them to the height she needs. Sweat pours down her face and burns in her eyes.
“I cannot do it,” she says through her teeth.
“You have to, my love. We’re so close,” Lottie says.
Breathing deeply, she pushes even harder. Her knees buckle beneath her. The bones in her wrist that Chesha fractured start to crack into pieces. Blood drips from her nose, her ears, and her mouth.
And it is not enough. The plants hardly grow at all. The vines are nowhere near the cauldron.
“I have to go inside,” she says.
“You can’t,” Lottie says. “She’ll hear you. It’s too dangerous.”
“We don’t have a choice. The tallow burning on its own will not be enough to burn the entire cottage. The plants must catch fire, too.”
“Then let me do it,” Lottie says.
“No. I will not run the risk of your magic accidentally starting a fire while you are inside. You stay far away from this.”
“Mari, I—”
“Just let me. You have been burned enough. Please.”
Lottie tries to protest further, but Marigold silences her with a kiss.
“I’ll be quick,” she promises as she fights against the burning pain in her wrist and pulls herself through the window. Shards of cold glass scrape her skin. Her feet hit the ground with a thud, and she balances herself against the wall. She allows herself three seconds to breathe it all in, and another three to say goodbye.
Her grandmother’s favorite room.
The happy memories they made here.
The cottage where she found magic, love, heartbreak, and grief.
This is how it ends.
Quickly, she breaks away dry branches from the wall and dips them into the tallow before tossing them onto the floor. She does this repeatedly, covering the floor with saturated petals and leaves.
The handle of the door twists.
The hinges start to creak.
With all her strength, she shoves the hot cauldron over, pouring the rest of the tallow onto the floor and burning her palms so much so that the skin sticks to the iron.
Versa flings the door open. “What are you doing?” she shrieks. She takes a step forward and the tallow squelches beneath her. Enraged, she lunges for Marigold, who is just out of reach. Versa falls onto her stomach and chokes as the impact knocks the breath out of her.
